


picture of your face in an invisible locket

by inattention



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Idols, M/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, but they're bfs, osamu likes making suna metaphors, osamu: og suna simp, photoshoot, tbh they're just stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26510746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inattention/pseuds/inattention
Summary: He shouldn’t even care about Suna. He shouldn’t, but he does, because he’s known that killer king since he was just a shaking teenager in a cramped bathroom missing his parents, missing his friends, missing his life. He’s known him since the first of his razor-sharp heartbreaker grins, the ones that cut out the hearts of the unsuspecting and doesn’t ever plan to give them back.Osamu’s was one of the very first that he’d ended up cupping in his too clumsy fingers, still steadily pumping out a melody of cacophonous devotion, the best he could offer in a world of camera shutters and glittering headlines.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81
Collections: Haikyuu x Taylor Swift Week 2020





	picture of your face in an invisible locket

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the song dancing with our hands tied for haikyuu x taylor swift week!

Suna Rintarou is not made out of flesh and blood like the rest of them. He is made of stars and cosmic dust and everything that the universe keeps safe against her unfathomable bosom. He floats across the stage like an otherworldly entity, emerald green eyes alight under the bright lights, glitter on his cheekbones, every calculated movement a surefire recipe for the best kind of disaster.

He doesn’t waste energy—that, Osamu already knows, at least. When he moves, there’s always purpose to every sweep, to every arc, to every subtle little piece of engineering he weaves with his body.

It’s not to say that he keeps his every move exact; magazines highlight how he’s more known for his improvisations—the smoldering bedroom eyes, the classic slip of the tongue, the accidental on purpose quirk of the lips, all things he’s fabricated to garner a response and all things he knows always ends up working, because he’s always been a pretty boy and when he was seventeen across a man smelling of cigarette smoke and too expensive cologne, he’s been told that the best way to go about it is to lean into it, because it’s the best kind of marketing.

Osamu doesn’t quite remember how growing into his skin feels like, but he remembers being a teenager who realizes he’s gay staring into the eyes of a band mate who looked at him in a way that made his toes curl and his cheeks flush the way not even the deafening cheers could not.

It’s been two years now since they’ve disbanded, and Osamu is still getting used to having less people to depend on, because he’s never been alone. Meanwhile Suna flourishes like the bruising weight of the entertainment industry is no sweat off his back.

He shouldn’t even care about Suna. He shouldn’t, but he does, because he’s known that killer king since he was just a shaking teenager in a cramped bathroom missing his parents, missing his friends, missing his life. He’s known him since the first of his razor-sharp heartbreaker grins, the ones that cut out the hearts of the unsuspecting and doesn’t ever plan to give them back.

Osamu’s was one of the very first that he’d ended up cupping in his too clumsy fingers, still steadily pumping out a melody of cacophonous devotion, the best he could offer in a world of camera shutters and glittering headlines.

He’s always been right beside him, too self-involved to care, but now that he has the time to see, it’s apparent that Suna Rintarou performs like he was made for it, dances like the stage is where he belongs.

So, Osamu watches and watches and watches; so, he craves and hungers like he always does—because there is no room for denial in the world of life sentence and soul exchanges, because he’s never known how not to want what he wants so badly.

Atsumu elbows him in the side, grumbling under his breath about how he’s being creepy, cut it out with the starin’, Samu, yer bein real obvious, eyes still follow Suna despite the scolding—where is he? There he is!

Suna is smiling. He never used to that when they performed together, but time in this elevated dais with the whole world watching has changed all of them.

When they were first assembled and told that they would be debuting as a group, they were only kids who wanted to make music, to make miracles, to make a mark. Now they’ve grown up—gotten used to the makeup and the pounding bass and the thrill of the multicolored hues.

It’s probably for the best, Osamu thinks as he watches Suna waves to the audience, his lips still quirked upwards into happiness he wants to pick at with his own hands. There’s sweat beading on his brow, his hands are clenched tight, his chest heaves, a steady constant _in, out, in, out._

He turns his gaze and looks over, eyes scanning the crowd until he finds Osamu. He makes a show of raising well plucked eyebrow, an unspoken challenge. _Like what you see?_ He’s glittering under the shower of gold, and he looks radiant, always so radiant.

Osamu wants a lot of things, wants to say so many things, but every time he blinks, flashes float behind his eyelids.

There’s no use when everyone’s watching them. There’s no use when everyone’s waiting for one of them to slip. Suna doesn’t flinch away when he opens his eyes, and that’s how he knows that Suna would orchestrate his own personal fall from grace before he’d let anyone make his choices for him.

Osamu knows from that look that there will be a text message notification from him later. His heart thrums in anticipation. Suna smiles, small and slight, then he bows and disappears into the wings.

Atsumu grabs his arm then, tells him they should take their places. Osamu lets himself get dragged away, heavy with longing.

* * *

The manager that manages them now is simple. When Uniqlo tells them that there will be a duo shoot featuring Suna Rintarou, Osamu only has to tell him how difficult Atsumu will be. _He’s_ the obvious choice, and the manager decides to agree with him.

If Atsumu doesn’t say anything in defense, they ignore it. (Osamu is thankful, though he’ll never admit it.)

He’s dragged into hair and makeup and pushed into the dressing room faster than he can crane his neck to look for the familiar lines of a broad back—it is almost laughable that he feels like he tastes victory on his tongue when Suna Rintarou finally makes his appearance, languidly taking his spot behind him, his posture slackening and his lips twisting into a much more attractive version of the scowl he was sporting before the photographers.

He’s gorgeous, but that isn’t something to write home about. The magazines like his dreamy eyed, bad boy look. They like that he looks like he wouldn’t regret breaking your heart. (Suna hasn’t broken his yet, though. Osamu doesn’t think he ever will.)

There’s hardly any time for Osamu to change how he positions himself before the photographer calls for another shot, their attention completely taken in by Suna’s black hole presence, consuming everything in its path.

“Yer stealin’ my thunder,” Osamu finally speaks, amusement softening the edges of his scorn. Suna responds by biting his lip to restrain the chuckle that was going to escape his lips.

“You didn’t use to suck so bad,” he tells him, eyes dark with intent as Osamu presses his back against his body and directs his gaze to the camera. The photographer looks delighted.

“I don’t suck.”

There’s an arm wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him closer to Suna as Osamu angles his head just right to highlight his jaw as he looks up at him. Another click, another flash.

“Maybe that’s only because you had your brother to pull your weight.”

Osamu snorts and rolls his eyes at him. “Come off it. Ya wouldn’t even know my name if I were a scrub,” he bares his teeth at him.

“Then act like it.” Suna makes everything sound like a competition. Osamu has always hated to lose. “Or do I distract you too much?”

He is, but Osamu would never admit to it. “I’m not,” he says, and then, more insistently, “I don’t suck.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll sock ya if y’don’t shut yer trap,” Osamu threatens, because he knows he’s telling the truth. The camera loves him, and genetics has guaranteed that every angle is a good angle for him. This is just different.

“Well,” Suna drawls, sounding far too enthralled with the situation for his comfort, “I’ll help, if today’s such a bad day for you then.”

“How generous of ya.”

“Exactly.”

His hands find their way to the ends of the sweater Osamu is meant to be promoting and pull him to his chest, “Hold my face.”

Osamu is confused, but he’s always bent over backwards to do whatever Suna asks of him and today is no different. The taller man is still staring straight ahead, the camera lens with the intensity of his eyes, even as his hand reaches over to cradle his cheek in his hand. Suna leans into his touch even he tries very hard not to and Osamu is only human, is only so strong, so his heart traitorously stutters in his chest.

“—now, turn your neck a little to the right. No, not there,” he directs, reaching to clasp his jaw with a pale hand, “ _There_. Turn your head, give the camera a little smolder.”

He obeys. Almost immediately, the photographer yells for them to stay in that pose and then there’s an endless stream of _this looks great, oh, how perfect, you work really good together!_

Osamu grunts, elbowing Suna in the ribs when he shoots him a look far too smug that he should be allowed. “Yer a proper show-off, aren’t cha,” he reprehends.

Suna only hums, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I miss you,” he tells him, blunt and straight to the point. “When will you let me see you again?”

Osamu turns to him, gauging the sincerity of his words. “Ya have my number,” he says, carefully, “use it.”

Suna shrugs, looking away. “Reply to me this time,” he almost sounds like he’s sulking, and Osamu shouldn’t find it endearing but he does.

He’s known this heavenly being since he was still a breakable, bleeding body. He’s loved him then, and he loves him still.

“Don’t do anythin’ risky in public next time.”

“I literally only looked at you—”

“You can look at me all ya want when we’re alone,” he interrupts; he steals a glance at the staff, who are now asking them to pay more attention to what they’re doing now. “You should know more than anyone that we should be careful.”

“Would you at least let me drive you home today?”

Osamu smiles. “Fine,” he agrees, because there will always be spaces that he can possess with Suna, and while there isn’t a lot, he’s going to take advantage of what he’s been given to the best of his ability.

Suna’s eyes sparkle at his response, and that’s enough for him to know that he plans to do the same thing.

**Author's Note:**

> love you, kade! hope you enjoy this one :]


End file.
